Art and International Human Rights: Reflections on the Course

It's always interesting to think about one's personal development in relation to academic coursework.

This semester, I had the incredible opportunity to take a class at Yale Law School called "Art and International Human Rights."

The course description was as follows:

This seminar aims to explore the rich and complex intersections between art and artistic practices and international human rights. It is a central part of JUNCTURE: Explorations in Art and Human Rights, a new initiative sponsored by the Schell Center at Yale Law School. Unfolding over the 2015-2016 academic year, JUNCTURE will encompass collaborations with visiting artists, fellowships for Yale MFA students, public lectures, this seminar, publications, performances, an exhibition, and a symposium. In this seminar, as in the initiative, we welcome the participation of law students, art students, and graduate students from other disciplines.

We seek to articulate and discuss a series of questions about the relationship between art and international human rights. For example, what are the possibilities and limits of the documentary form? What are the possibilities and limits of art as an agent of social change? What ethics should govern the representation and reception of images of violence and atrocity? What are the relationships among aesthetics, politics, and justice? What institutional, political, and economic factors affect the conditions in which art and artists function? We will situate these discussions both in historical perspective and in the practices of contemporary artists and writers.


As the semester wraps up, we had to reflect on what we had learned in the course, and this is what I wrote:

In the beginning, there was art.  Art was an agent of human rights, and art was human rights.  Art reflected human rights from the beginning.
The Divinity School student in me could not help indulging in some poetic license, interweaving Scriptural text (see John 1:1-2) with our themes from this course—something that I have not done thus far.  Walking a mile “down the hill” once a week for class, I was determined to leave religion out of the picture in order to fully immerse myself in different intellectual territory.  I also learned to see images and hear words in a context outside of music and ritual, expanding my own artistic and professional training as a violinist and music therapist to engage with film, play, and visual material.

In the beginning, we met as strangers, walking and talking thoughtfully around select images in the Gallery.  From there, we collected keywords and met visiting artists, with whom we worked to develop separate projects.  Our classes have found us grappling with current issues, philosophical concepts, and debates that took on a nearly “moral” tone.  
Interestingly, my keyword from our second class was morality.  What about both art and human rights, I asked, make them “accountable” to a wider community?  To whom are they accountable—what/who constitutes that community?  Are there ever times when we must deal with competing “moralities” when making an artistic or legal decision?  When we take religion out of the picture, who decides what “morality” means?  To what authority does art appeal?  Are the artist’s intentions sufficient, or must art “speak” for itself in broader ways?  Is there a difference between “objective” and “emotional” truth?  Perhaps, like religion, “morality” should be left out of the picture.
Thanks to the group work with Dipika, I have chosen instead to focus on the relationship between narrative and justice.  I have written dramatic scenes dealing with my own family history of migration, interrogating concepts of identity in transnational contexts. I have watched interviews with asylum seekers, concluding upon the importance of psychological training in matters of trauma when conducting legal matters.  And most recently, I researched and created a play about the Sanctuary Movement, which ties theological themes with social justice—and thus marries art with human rights in its own way.

Warm data.  Empathy.  Plasticity.  
These are but a few of the words and themes that have stayed in my mind.  As a former helping professional who has worked with survivors of trauma and patients facing death, I appreciated Chitra and Mariam’s emphasis on the humanness of data.  As a musician, I have always taken for granted the power of the arts (my exposure has mostly been to music) to elicit empathy and emotion—and thus found it interesting to struggle (collectively, in class) with defining empathy in light of Levinas.
Ultimately, I am indebted to Dipika for showing me the importance of plasticity in playwriting and in life, because here is where the realm of ritual and liturgy (found in both music therapy and religion) intersect with the biggest question of all: what can art do for human rights?

Primarily, art tells a story.  It is a narrative.  Amalia reminded us that objects carry anecdotal history.  An artistic work contains the process of its making (we were fortunate to hear and learn about this from our MFA students); the interpretation of a work adds another element to the narrative—art must have an audience to count as art; and most importantly, the story must continue/progress and be translated into action—whether direct or indirect—for art to truly impact the condition of humanity.
Thus, art is a relational activity.  The fact that all art elicits some sort of reaction means that it is doing the work of raising awareness and encouraging discussion.  (If I could recommend a book to be added to our syllabus, it would be John Dewey’s Art As Experience.  Adding Dewey to the conversation might have added clarity to our evaluations on how exactly to engage with art—and I regret not thinking of this until now.)  What we do with it becomes our responsibility, and the potential ways in which we can narrate justice through art are boundless.

Music therapy and religion have made me an astute student of ritual.  Like play, ritual narrates by eliciting emotional responses—a certain form of empathy.  It is my personal belief that visual art is most powerful when mixed with other artistic forms—movement, music, etc.—and that art should never be viewed in isolation from other human activity.

Ritual and American Culture: A Reflection on YDS

Write one page discussing to what extent ritual fulfills a vital social function. 

            Why do we care so much about rituals?  Sometimes, we don’t realize how much we care until ritual is taken away from us—or until we sense a need for which there is no ritual—and that only ritual can fill.  Thus, the way we care about rituals cuts two ways. Rituals serve us, and when we don’t have them, we feel their absence.  Sometimes, in our efforts to maintain a ritual for ritual’s sake, we end up serving the ritual.  Either way, ritual not only expresses, but also organizes human emotions and values in tangible—but not literal—ways.  Herein lies the social function of rituals.

            At Yale Divinity School, liturgy abounds in the multitude of chapel services that occur every week.  Being an ecumenical seminary, liturgy is as experimental as it is all-encompassing.  Interestingly, the abundance of liturgy has seemingly led to a scarcity of ritual.  What I mean by this is that there are few actual “traditions” that students can expect from year to year, and that has left the community feeling angry and frustrated.  In my role as one of the Community Life Coordinators at YDS, I have listened to students complain about not feeling like they know their role in the community—and not feeling safe enough to interact productively with administration and faculty.  The Executive Committee, on which I serve, is largely constituted by students in their third year who still have not gotten over the fact that one of their favorite rituals, “Saints and Sinners,” was banned—and not replaced by something similar or better—by the administration two years ago. 

Initially, I was shocked at how great the resentment was over such a “minor” matter. But over time, I came to see ritual as a marker of sincerity—whether actual or performed—and to understand its absence as inviting unorganized emotions.  A ritual, no matter how serious or frivolous, is something to be looked forward to, something that grounds individuals in a sense of community.  At Yale Divinity School, rituals such as Convocation, Advent Party, and Commencement still exist, but Saints and Sinners, the yearly ritual of “fun,” has gone and left a gaping hole in the heart of the community.

Even as old rituals are eliminated by those in power who may not appreciate their value in a social group, so do new rituals arise to meet new needs.  For the incoming class at YDS who know nothing of Saints and Sinners, the absence of ritual becomes an opportunity to create new traditions and a source of agency in establishing new roles and ideology in a community.  Over the last two weeks, the Divinity School was rocked by the events happening “downtown” in Yale College.  Several of our students—mostly women of color—attended the March of Resilience, Teach-In, and other related events on the main Yale campus.  Their involvement sparked intense conversation at the Divinity School, and eventually, our Dean held a “listening session” in which students of color could speak candidly about their experiences.  Among many other things, out of this very intense meeting came a recognition that the Divinity School needed to do something to minister to Yale Undergrads. Several students got together to plan a very last-minute Service of Solidarity, to which undergrads would be invited. 

The Service of Solidarity drew a larger crowd than normally attends our weekly chapel services.  I saw students, faculty, and staff who came to show their support for what this service meant.  Showing up was a marker of sincerity; whether it was real or performed (or a mixture of both) did not matter as much as the act of coming.  Ultimately, it didn’t matter whether or not many undergrads were there.  The point of it all was solidarity, and that required, first and foremost, a Divinity presence.

On a personal level, I felt compelled to help plan the Service of Solidarity, both as a woman of color and as Community Life Coordinator.  My Community Life Committee helped provide refreshments for the Service, and I took time out of my schedule to sing with the Gospel Choir for the Service.  It wasn’t enough that I emotionally and verbally supported my friends who were on the forefront of planning—I also felt that I had to physically show up and do something. 

After the Service of Solidarity, one of the main leaders of the event posted on Facebook, saying that for the first time since she arrived at Yale Divinity School, she felt a sense of purpose and that she had a place in the community.  The ritual she planned and partook in both signaled and solidified her role.  She promised that she would make a better effort to attend chapel services regularly.  Now that ritual had served to give her a sense of identity, she was making an effort to serve the ritual. 
My analysis of the Service of Solidarity would seem to suggest that, even in an overtly religious setting like Yale Divinity School, ritual fulfills a function that is first social and then spiritual.  Granted, this statement could be easily contested if one reads a false dichotomy between the social and the spiritual.  But for the purposes of this short piece, suffice it to say that the emotional component of ritual is something that calls for its existence and enactment—and might be taken for granted until it is neglected.

'Tis a Gift to be Simple

All my life, I have wrestled with the tension between wanting a simple life and feeling pulled to do great things.  My decisions have been somewhere in the middle of these two ideas, and different seasons of life have entailed leaning more towards one or the other.

This year, I've longed for more time, more rest, and more freedom to do my own thing rather then being responsible to others.  But it's also been clear that this season is not about doing my own thing, so I've learned to accept commitment, responsibility, and all the stress and fatigue that come with those things.

Last week, during Homegroup, I realized that the way I live simply this year is by trusting wholly. It's worked every time I've tried it.  Each week, I wonder whether I'll make it through, and somehow, I do.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I am reminded of the fact that

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.
(from the Shaker Melody, "Simple Gifts")

Hope

Fall in New England is a glorious affair.  The leaves turn all shades of reds, oranges, and yellows. Each day brings new transformation, and autumn sunshine illuminates the beauty of changing foliage.

By November, though, most of the trees are bare, and the leaves have either been trampled on or swept away.  Still, there is beauty in the bleakening landscape.  The show is over, but we're still here, say the naked branches and tree trunks.

I thought about this today during my weekly trek from the Divinity School down to Yale's main campus, and I thought about how exposure is good.  When the glory and the show end, we're left with skeletons and structures.  We see clearly what's behind the facade. This is what is happening at Yale.  

Last Friday, the Dean of YDS held a listening session to hear from students of color.  Most of those who spoke were women, and the honesty was raw and brutal at times, hopeful and encouraging in other moments.  Everyone in the room was profoundly affected--even destabilized--by the conversation.

Over the weekend, I had some time to recover from an intense week, which had begun with me stopping by Monday's March of Resilience at Yale; progressed into spending hours on Facebook reading articles, writing posts, and fielding questions and comments from West Coast friends (mostly Asian males, interestingly); and finally ended with Friday's conversation at the Divinity School.

Over the weekend, I took some international students on a hike and scored a goal in the YDS Paracleats' semi-final soccer game.  I went to church, worked on papers, and tried to get some sleep. I also attended a planning meeting for a special chapel service that happened this morning--in solidarity for Yale Undergrads.  

This chapel service has been a long time in coming.  Last spring, there were hints of revival at YDS, especially during chapel services featuring the Gospel Choir.  When you see students across cultures and denominations all being physically and emotionally moved by praise music, you know that change can't be far away.

This morning, chapel lasted longer than usual.  More faculty, staff, and students attended than usual. And the music spoke more powerfully than usual.

By the end of the service, we'd all formed a large circle, linking arms, holding hands, and singing "Break Every Chain" and "Lean on Me."  Several voices had spoke--women and men of color, reading in various languages (I did Lamentations 3:53 in Chinese)--and many other voices had sung in unison to music of hope and strength.  

Since the beginning of this semester, I have been spiritually drained but fiercely hopeful.  I had a feeling that new wine was getting ready to be poured into our community, but new wine needs new wineskins.

***I had to take a break from this blog post to put this on Facebook:

Singing in Solidarity for an extended chapel service with the Gospel Choir--and hearing from a variety of cultures and languages--this is exactly what Yale Divinity School needed, and I am so grateful for and exhausted from an amazing day on campus!

All semester long--in fact, I sensed this as early as this past summer--I have been telling my fellow sisters of color that new wine is getting ready to be poured into our community. But new wine needs new wineskins, otherwise things will explode. It is now clear to me that new wineskins means systemic and institutional changes, and that the time to fight for those things is now. So proud of my sisters and brothers who have taken such initiative to take action, and so honored to stand with you!

Thanksgiving is next week, and I have so much for which to be grateful.  

When I accepted the position of Community Life Co-Coordinator at YDS, I knew I was getting myself into a lot more than I could handle.  Every week, I've had to ask for Grace and lean into that Grace.  I've made it thus far, and I will make it to the end.

When I began my CLC job, I was emotionally and spiritually drained by the abundance of meetings and events I had to attend or put on.  I hated walking onto campus because I could feel how needy and broken people were, and interaction after interaction would suck the life out of me.  I was happy to escape downtown two days a week to get away from the Div School.

Today's walk downtown felt different, though.  The pain of loving my YDS Community had lessened.  I had been loving it even when it hurt me.  But today, that love gave me energy and fulfillment.  The change that I had been fighting and praying for was rearing is beautiful head, and others were finally catching onto it.

I feel as if the burden has lifted.  The intense spiritual warfare in which I've been fighting has taken a turn towards victory.  Sisters and brothers of all colors have been roused to action.  And yes, I count white as a color--I celebrate the fact that we cannot do this without the support of our white friends!

I know that the burden has been lifted because the baton has been passed on to this incoming class at YDS--this vibrant, confident, and passionate group of students who have taken our campus by storm. I told them today: this is your time.  I'm just here to support you and stand by you.  You are the new wine, and I'm on my way out.  If I can clear the path for you, I'm willing.  And I will continue engaging in spiritual warfare on your behalf.

They said to me: we feel your prayers, because it has been so easy to be ourselves in this space and to do what's important to us.  

God is so faithful to his daughters.  He has provided a way out, and He is raising up mighty women to sing and dance upon injustice!

Amen.